Hope
by UnstableDarkHorse
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is a poor artist living with cheap tea and without hope for a decent future. When everything seems down, a simple visit to Starbucks makes him fall for Alfred F. Jones. After looking into his eyes, inspiration takes flight and courses through his veins. Will the simple stroke of a brush bring him hope? Will it bring him love? [USUK]
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Hope as Inspiration

Rain has such a lovely sound when you really think about it; the way it hits the windows and slowly rolls down. For the first time, I realized how beautiful it could be, how gracefully it fell on my face and rolled down like tears. I reached up to wipe my face and did so. My emerald colored eyes were fixed on the grey sky, with openings where sunlight would leak through. I smiled, thinking it was a beautiful symbol of hope still existing. Still hope for the weak, hope for the needy, and maybe even me.

I stepped inside from the rain and grabbed some wood to add to my small fireplace. The apartment was awfully messy, so I was forced to step over piles of belongings and drawings. The kitchen was just as I left it, perfectly clean with a cold cup of cheap tea. My nose wrinkled at the smell of something burning, and I ran to the oven to find my scones all burnt and ruined. With a frustrated sigh, I checked the clock—which read 4'o clock—and grabbed my coat. I had no food, and I needed some more pencils and wood.

Trying to keep this mental list of things, I walked around town looking for a coffee shop and found one. Bloody lord, I'm exhausted. I opened the door and was greeted by comfy warmth. One of the tables in the corner had a chair and newspaper, and was seated next to the fireplace. I could never have prayed for better. I got in line and let out a quiet yawn.

The coffee shop wasn't too big—being a Starbucks and all. It had a very tidy cashier's desk, and the kitchen was full of assorted coffee ranging from pumpkin cappuccinos, to peppermint mochas. It was my turn to order and was greeted by a handsome young man. He couldn't be more than nineteen years of age, and his eyes. His eyes were like looking at the sky on a sunny day; I literally felt the sun on my face just looking into them. His skin was tan, like that of a tourist and I stared. Suddenly, I recognized him as Alfred F. Jones, or as many called him, Al. He worked here in the coffee shop to repay a debt to a sibling, whose name I couldn't recall at the moment.

"May I take your order?" he asked, his voice interrupting my thoughts.

"I'll take a dark chocolate mocha, with a blueberry scone." I replied.

"Okay, your name?" He pushed some buttons on the cash register and looked up from it to meet my eyes.

"Arthur." I couldn't and wouldn't say much more.

"Fancy seeing you here," he wrote my name on the cup and smiled even brighter; if that's even humanly possible.

"I come often, nice to see you." I nodded thanks, paid for my coffee and scone, left a tip for good measure, and went to my seat. My eyes fixed on the sugar packets in the tiny box at the table. The man got to work and started making the coffee. I could smell the delicious smell of fresh cocoa beans from where I was and my eyes couldn't stand it any more, and neither could my weak body. I felt myself lean forward and fall on my side, I heard glass break, but I didn't care. I was just so exhausted.

Hearing a voice calling my name, I sighed softly. The man started to shake me and said my name a bit softer.

"Arthur?" he called worriedly.

My eyes fluttered opened as I heard my name clearly. Mr. Jones assisted me by offering his hand. With a relieved sigh, he smiled. Oh but his smile; so bright and bold, yet calm and nurturing in its own way.

I took his hand and got to my feet. Embarrassed, I let out a small cough and looked down.

"S-sorry about that, I seemed to have gotten caught up in a daydream."

"No problem dude." He smiled. "Do you need any help getting home?"

"No, I'm quite fine." I nodded in reassurance.

"Alright then. I'll get your money back—"

"No, its ok," I interrupted, "Just keep it…I'm sure you need it more than I do."

"God bless you Arthur," the young man smiled radiantly, yet again.

With a nod, I made my way back home. The sidewalk was slippery, and empty of the usual fuss of people. It would be lovely on a sunny day; amazed tourists pointing at the Big Ben, the families walking about, occupied businessmen chatting away on their cell phones, and street vendors smiling brightly and tipping their hats occasionally. With a smile, I remember the blissful smells from the bakery, and the jovial baker who always gives me a free loaf of French bread just because.

Reality wasn't nearly as close to these nice recollections. Blinking, I realized that the sidewalk indeed was empty. The sound of car wheels speeding past me make me flinch, for I don't pay mind to the cars. A small hope arose in my heart that the small art shop around the corner would be open. Its small blue and red lights shining on the days it was open, and a fine display of art and tools I'd never be able to afford. Sighing softly in defeat as I rounded the corner to find it was closed, I sat at the bus stop, waiting for a bus. I couldn't remember where I was, or what route I had taken, so I would have to wait for the bus. Rain…it kept falling.

—Time Skip—

At the late hour of midnight I arrived home because of the rain. No buses were in service today, and it took me a few hours of wandering through the streets to find a decent taxi. I walked beside the fireplace and blew on the still burning wood and it sparked into a decent and warm fire.

When I was content with the fire, I organized a few things and heated a canned soup for dinner. My hair and clothes were soaking wet, so I dressed in my nightclothes and hung my clothes to dry. I grabbed a towel to dry myself and went to eat the not-so-plentiful dinner.

The sound of drizzling rain echoed quietly through the house, and feelings of sadness boiled somewhere deep within. Excusing these feelings, untamable by me, I closed my eyes and thought of the summer sun. How it shined so bright in the vibrant blue sky, and on some days, fluffy white clouds decorated the sky. Just by thinking of it I felt the warmth, then I thought about his eyes.

His eyes were incredibly blue…so proud, so kind, so...

full of _hope_.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Yes it's short, but definitely a good start to something I plan to continue. :)

I'm working on Chapter Two as you read this. I'm trying to make it longer, and more visual so stay tuned!

Thanks for reading!

- U.D.H.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Deep and Endless Ocean

I wake up to the sunlight leaking into my small bedroom. My side is sore from the fall yesterday, and I realize I must've cut my hand with the broken glass because it stings. I look around my little apartment and out the small window.

Then again everything in the apartment complex is small. On one side of it, a kitchen and decent living room are full of papers and unused or expired art supplies. On the other, a bathroom, my fireplace, and the small bedroom I'm currently in. The place felt more like a cramped elevator than an apartment to me.

Carefully hoping over large stacks of unfinished sketches and—what I deemed to be—horrible paintings. I never had enough pride in a piece to go walk to the gallery and ask to put it up for display. The people there usually left large amounts of money as an appreciation tip and people like me were bound to get a life. I gave up the dream of actually being good enough to put something up in there.

It's been about half a year since I picked up something and continued it, or picked up a empty canvas or a clear sheet of paper to just start creating something. Inspiration was lost, along with my money, and my lovely lifestyle.

I used to live decently when I had Francis Bonnefoy. He was my apartment roommate until he had to go to France. I remember the bright smile on his face when he told me the news of his wine company's success in getting permission to open up a factory in France, but that would mean he would have to leave. Surely, we resented each other when we cooked our foods; he was always the better cook but I never wanted to admit it. But deep down, we cared for one another. I even recall the time he found me drunk on the street after getting turned down for a job at a flower shop and carried me home. We became close friends, sharing lunches, ideas, and even art. Francis was a gay man, truly, but he was lovely to have around. He never got too angry with me, and always helped me find inspiration even in the smallest things. He was my hope and light when it felt like everything wouldn't turn out right. In the end, it didn't.

He never spoke to me again. Not through letters, the pay phone, his cell phone, not even through e-mail. I felt unwanted, and uncared for. Those days were the start of something terrible. I started eating out more often because I couldn't even handle making a bowl of cereal. The decent amount of money I had with Francis was now decreasing in amount with every day that passed. Then the water and light bills started being delivered to my door. I threw them away with fury, and ripped them apart. From then on, I would sneak into community pools and use the showers there. I bought more candles and flashlights so I wouldn't need any light. This had been working for quite a while until I had to buy batteries and even more candles. My pocket was slowly losing weight and so was I. I had to reduce my eating to a small meal a day. I went into the charity places and waited for a box with things but all the families would end up taking them and then the workers there would turn to me with pitiful looks on their faces just to shake their heads. When they offered me money, I politely shook my head and left. Without food, without money, without love, without care, and discouraging enough, without hope.

I found myself just staring out the window, remembering the times of Francis Bonnefoy and the pathetic aftermath of when he left. My head started aching and I let out a sigh. I made my way to my bathroom and looked for medicine to ease the ache. With a defeated sigh I got a fresh change of clothing and hopped into the shower. It was warm and comforting in the way it ran through my hair and eased my stress. After washing myself, I dried off and poured my self a cold cup of my expired cheap tea. I drank it and almost gagged. Sure, it was cheap tea, but this time it tasted awful like never before. I set it down and went to check my phone. Lots of missing calls from New York. I chuckle.

"Let me guess, a job at a New York art shop?" I said with thick sarcasm.

Curious, I dialed the number and placed the phone to my ear. When the ringing ended a voice as familiar as morning and evening sounded.

"Hello?"

"Are you kidding me?" I laugh a bit. "I apologize for laughing. How'd you get a hold of my contact Alfred?"

"Well, there's this huge book right next to the pay phone I was going to use. It had names, addresses, and coincidentally enough, it had your name, number, and address." He yawned a bit. "It took a while to find you with all the other Kirklands living here in England."

"I'm flattered you took the time to find me, but it's not the best time."

"Well Matthew and I went to go eat at some delicious French restaurant and I thought I'd bring what I saved for you today."

"Alfred, you saved food for me?"

"Of course Arthur. After seeing you fall like that, I'm sure you wouldn't been able to go buy food today yourself."

There was silence for a minute.

"I see. Well being as it is, my address is written in the book, yes? You're welcome to come right now if you'd prefer it."

"Perfect. I'll be on my way then."

"Alright, see you in a bit."

"See you."

The conversation ended just like that. I couldn't believe what I was experiencing though. Someone had saved food for _me_. It wasn't just anyone either, it was the wonderful worker at Starbucks. Alfred F. Jones.

As soon as I realized the huge mess in the kitchen and living room, I dreaded his arrival. With a sigh and an attempt of a smile, I started humming songs and organizing my many belongings. I dusted the top of an old cabinet Francis gave me on one of my birthdays and dusted the painting I had done of the two of us sitting next to each other in the field during Christmas. I remembered how cold it was and laughed a little. I set it back on the cabinet and dusted the windows, the ceiling fan, and the other photographs in their frames covered with glass. The living room was finished and I washed the dishes, silently praying that the water bill this month would be cheap enough for me to pay off. I dried and placed the dishes in their appropriate places and sighed happily at the finished product. A clean apartment was a hospitable apartment.

When I went to brush my hair, I looked into the mirror. Who was that man? I truly looked horrible. The dark circles under my eyes had darkened sufficiently, my hair unmanageable, my face graced with only a smile, and my body's natural slouch represented my lack of sleep. My once bright and happy eyes are now a dark forest green color, dull and sadder than before.

There's a knock on the door so I go and open up.

"Hello there Alfred," I smile. "Nice to see you."

"Good day to you Arthur," He nods and smiles back holding a large plastic bag in his hand.

"Please come in," I move out of the way so he can enter the apartment. "I don't have enough money for a couch, but you can sit on one of the stools over there."

He takes his seat after placing the bag on the counter. I look over at him and then the bag. This wasn't food from a restaurant. This was a charity bag. As offended as I was, I couldn't believe my eyes. There were five packages of varying teas from Earl Gray to Japanese Green Tea! A whole assortment of candied fruit, canned fruits and vegetables, and much to my liking, microwavable meals. There were four loaves of warm French bread, a loaf of white bread, and another of whole grain. Two tubs of vanilla ice cream and one of chocolate ice cream almost made me cry. There was much more in the bag, but I hadn't even thanked Alfred yet.

"How? And why?" I try to ask but my voice cracks.

"Matthew was one of the volunteers each week at the charity house, and he said he remembered a young man always coming to receive, but always leaving politely and empty-handed. When he told me what you looked like, I remembered you Arthur. Your many visits to the café made me realize that the man was indeed you. So I went early, made sure to get three boxes of supplies into a large bag. It should last you about four to five months."

"I can't explain how grateful I am to you Alfred," I smile and then look down disappointed. "But I don't have any money to pay for this."

"You don't have to." He smiles. "I just want to see you paint something."

I look up, bewildered beyond belief of what this man was asking of me. To paint meant to have inspiration, and right now the only thing on my mind was hope. Hope. The hope I had seen in Alfred's eyes the moment I saw them. So full of hope. My eyes widen at the realization that this man, this saint even, has given me food, a purpose to finally do something with my house, and above all, the inspiration to paint something.

"Of course. Now, my inspiration will be your eyes. Just sit and watch."

I fill a glass with water and pull out a white canvas, all the different shades of blue in watercolor paints, and two brushes. I look at Alfred, and he looks back with a grin. I smile and get to work. I don't realize I'm humming a familiar song until Alfred starts humming along. The painting I've started to create has so many shades of blue. From the top to the bottom it only gets darker to the point it reaches black. He painted the sun's light with lighter shades of blue until he was staring at the ocean. It felt like he was staring into his eyes, deep and endless like the ocean. I had painted it, and finished it, and I felt so many feeling looking at it.

Alfred had been looking at me while I just looked it over rather than keep painting. I set down my brush and ran my dirty hand through my hair, leaving some spots of blue. He chuckled at this action and I looked over at him.

"What seems to amuse you?" I ask.

"Your hair. You've painted your hair like an ocean." He laughs now and puts his hand out. "Now please, I'd like to see the product of all that hard work. It did take you three hours."

"Three hours? But it only felt like ten minutes." I looked at the clock and nearly fainted. "Oh my, I'm terribly sorry I kept you in for so long."

I turned the canvas towards Mr. Jones and showed him the painting. I smiled not with pride, but with happiness that someone was at least looking at his hard work.

"Arthur," he says softly with a hand to his mouth in utter disbelief. "This is astounding. It's so incredibly realistic. And you said my eyes were your inspiration? How did you do this?"

"Thank you much," I reply with a grateful smile and set down the canvas so it still faces a shocked Alfred. "I believe it has more meaning than you think. It's kind of the path of a hopeless man's life. You're born bright and true with an unlimited amount of pride and next is the center in which you've grown enough to understand that some of the people you care about will leave you behind, and next is total darkness in which no one is there and you're all alone and hopeless. Sometimes we artists see things that not a lot of people can see Alfred. It's just the way it works in our world and in our minds too."

Alfred was completely taken, his eyes were watering and he was sniffling. He hugged Arthur close to him.

"You truly are one of the most beautiful people I've ever met." He says to me with a sad smile.

I blush at this statement, but find it natural to take it as a compliment. "Thank you."

-Time Skip-

Alfred left after he forced me to eat some ice cream to make me happy and we laughed. The fun we shared that evening. We washed the dishes and told stories about our dreams and goals the were almost near impossible. Together.

This Alfred guy has given me a new reason to wake up every morning, to smile, and to sit down and paint again.

Now I'm just laying in bed, reading a book that Alfred gave me called The Fault in Our Stars, and said it was really popular in the United States. As I read, my soft ringtone echoed through the apartment and I went to pick up the phone.

"Who is it?" I look down at the name in disbelief and nearly drop my phone. The caller is…

_Francis Bonnefoy._

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I should be studying for exams right now, but I just had to get this chapter done and up.

I hope you all love that cliff hanger because I'm heading on a trip soon and I won't be able to write much. If I do write, I'll make sure to post.

Thanks for the reviews and the follows!

- U.D.H.


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